


A Peculiar Case

by themoonandmargot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Rosie & Moriarty, Post-TFP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandmargot/pseuds/themoonandmargot
Summary: He expects yelling, or gunshots, or blood splattered on the wallpaper. Maybe Moriarty is back from the grave. Maybe the man just needs another drug fix.But never would John have considered that Sherlock was in love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I edited this so some of the small formatting errors are (hopefully) fixed. Enjoy reading :)

“Mrs. Hudson,” John calls, walking up the steps to the living room. “Mrs. Hudson?”

It’s nothing like how the landlady described it over the phone. The flat is quiet, the type of quiet that only a screeching baby could make John come to appreciate; the type of quiet that would have Sherlock perched upon the kitchen counter while peering into his microscope. Yet the room is glaringly void of people, leading John to believe he’s been pranked.

That is, until a loud crash sounds from Sherlock’s side of the flat. John nearly trips over the rug. From the hall emerges Mrs. Hudson, her face pinched up the way it is whenever Sherlock does something particularly horrible. “Oh, John!” she cries. “You're here!”

“You rang?” John asks, peering towards the source of the sound.

“It’s Sherlock! He’s been tearing up the flat again, bit by bit, ever since last night,” she sighs.

John watches Mrs. Hudson fuss with a decorative pillow in the living room, and frowns. “What happened last night?”

Another hefty thump makes Mrs. Hudson drop the pillow and scurry past John. “Absolutely _nothing_! He didn’t go outside at all, didn’t even leave his room.”

In the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson adjusts every bottle and beaker that John thought looked fine before. He accepts the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson offers him, though he suspects it’s been cold for the last fifteen minutes. He sips slowly, seemingly unaffected by the yells coming from the hallway. “Tough case, then?” he asks, as she scrubs at the grime of the sink.

“I’ve no idea. Every time I ask, he goes quiet for five seconds, then”—they hear glass shattering—“oh! He’s gone mad, John, you’ve got to help him.”

John scoffs ( _gone_ mad, he thinks) before setting his cup on the counter. He looks into Mrs. Hudson’s eyes, crinkled and smeared with makeup. “I’ll see what's wrong, don’t you worry.”

With each step towards Sherlock’s bedroom, the shouts and crashes get increasingly louder. John finds himself breathing quite heavily. Faintly, he hears the creak of the floorboards; Sherlock is pacing again. John wonders if Sherlock would have left John out of a case this troubling. “Sherlock,” he calls with a knock on the door. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m busy!” the man sings exasperatedly. From inside, Sherlock grunts before eliciting another loud bang.

John, rolling his eyes, urges, “We’re worried about you.”

“Shut _up_ , will you?”

Annoyed, John pounds on the door with the side of his fist. “Sherlock, I swear on the queen that if you don’t open this blasted door and talk to me about whatever feelings you claim you don’t have, then God help me, I–”

The door swivels open just enough for Sherlock to peer at him. The stubble has grown back, and the mop of hair is even more scruffy than usual. Sherlock squints at him, his eyes absorbing as much information he can gather from John's current attire. _He’s okay_ , John thinks, and he nearly swings up his arms and praises hallelujah, until Sherlock shuts the door close.

John’s eye twitches. The creak of the floorboards starts up again. Once more, John bellows Sherlock’s name, when at last–

The detective emerges from his room and sweeps past John towards the living room. He adorns his blue, satin dressing gown over the dress shirt he had worn yesterday, yet unsurprisingly enough, no shoes or socks. He now remains silent, and John contemplates if Sherlock is high, or just wants to be.

Sherlock inhales sharply before turning on his heel to look at his partner. His voice is cracked yet unnervingly casual when he greets, “Hello, John, how’ve you been?”

John leans forward, thinking he’s misheard. When Sherlock neglects to repeat himself, John blinks and replies, “I’m… fine.”

“Are you planning to go somewhere today? With anyone in particular?”

“No, and I wasn’t exactly planning to–”

“Show up here today? No, of course not, how idiotic of me. You didn’t bother to spritz on some new cologne today—I can still smell hints of sage, your apparent go-to when it comes to getting laid—nor did you take a shower since yesterday evening, which your styled yet slightly tousled hair indicates. You must have slept in it. Speaking of sleep, with your prominent eye bags and less-than-soldier-like posture, I’m assuming you didn’t have much of it. It couldn’t have been Rosie who kept you up all night, no, she’s with a babysitter. You were out late last night, in the rain. Why else would your shoes be damp? It’s not like you walked to Baker Street and happened to splash around in some puddles. And don’t tell me you were out for groceries or even on a midnight walk, because then your shoes wouldn’t be as dry right now. You’ve had to have spent the majority of last night sitting in a restaurant or the cinema. And even then, you wouldn’t be so stupid to prance around in pouring rain in the first place, unless there was something, or someone, to motivate you. So tell me, John, who were you on a date with last night?”

John’s mouth drops open, but he closes it when he crosses his arms and looks at Sherlock in the eye. “No one,” he replies curtly. Sherlock won't have any of it.

“ _No one?_ ” he echos.

“Nobody in particular, no. I went on a date, yes, but it was…” John shrugs, slightly flustered. “It was nothing serious. I didn’t even go home with her, if that matters so much to your analysis of me. Why do you even care at all?”

Sherlock stares at John for a second before turning towards the windows. Sherlock stays silent, watching the street below. After a minute or two John stops trying to figure out what his friend is thinking and instead wonders if he could sneak away unnoticed and completely avoid this conversation, or the lack thereof.

“I don’t know why,” Sherlock finally murmurs. A burst of energy suddenly lights up his features as he turns back towards John. “Well, no, that’s a lie. I have my ideas as to what chemical reactions are occurring in my body and–oh! There it is again.” Sherlock rests two fingers on his neck and titters. “Increased heart rate. Now you’re a doctor, Watson, tell me what that means.”

“Increased heart rate?” John repeats, confusion etched onto his face. “Er, well, assuming your heart isn’t malfunctioning as we speak, you’re most likely experiencing stress, anxiety, anger, or…”

Sherlock leans in, blue eyes wild with electricity. “Or?” he pushes.

John furrows his eyebrows. “Or… love.” John lets out a puff of air, perceived as a chuckle, and flashes a goading smile at his friend. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, have you been texting Irene Adler again?”

“What? No!”

John feels himself transform into a stereotypical teenage girl, eager for scandal. “Oh, come on, tell me! You lucky bastard, did she send a picture message this time? Is that why you’re ripping apart at the seams?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock dismisses, managing to compose himself. “I haven’t received a single text from her, and my phone is proof enough.”

He tosses the device to John, who quickly discovers the phone serves no use to him. “I don’t know your passcode,” he says flatly.

Now Sherlock is the one to tease. “Oh, you do,” he says, “of course you do. You might have known that passcode best, if it weren’t for me and my self-destructive habits. That passcode is most likely the cause of this entire mess, and to be frank, I should probably change it just in case, I don’t know, Moriarty’s ghost comes back to embarrass me. But alas, I find it too endearing to change.”

John studies the phone. “Too endearing…?”

“That, or I may have forgotten how to change my passcode in the first place.”

John scratches his head. “Can I have a hint?”

Sherlock steps closer. “One name, four letters. Come on, now. I'm only giving you one chance.”

The doctor stares at the screen, then slowly, taps in four buttons—”5-6-4-6”—only to find that he guessed incorrectly. “Nope, sorry, you're going to have to unlock it for me,” John sighs, extending the phone forwards. Sherlock, however, does nothing but smirk.

“5-6-4-6, hmm?” he notes while slipping the phone back into his pocket. “You thought it was _your_ name, didn’t you, John? You think I’d choose a passcode so horribly predictable?”

“W-well, I–” John snaps his mouth shut and shifts his weight to his other foot. Sherlock’s gaze has softened now, and it remains steadily focused on him. “Is… is this a joke?”

As if leaving a trance, Sherlock blinks. “What? No. I find it interesting, your thought process. Perhaps your name would make a better passcode, after all. London’s best kept secret: Dr. John Watson. Or maybe just _my_ best kept secret until, well, now.”

John nearly suffocates in the grip Sherlock’s stare has on him. He doesn’t know what Sherlock could possibly say in this moment, but then again, he hasn’t been able to think much ever since Sherlock started interrogating him.

“I would call myself a rather complicated man,” Sherlock starts, “yet you, John, make me feel incredibly simple if not completely idiotic. It’s as if my usually clear view of the world is stunted by my incapability to muster a word for what I feel for you. Yet at the same time, you serve as my daily motivation to get up and solve crimes without overdosing on cocaine. So I don’t know what to make of you and this paradox you’ve created for me, John. There must be a word for it, one that I’ve thrown so far back into the recesses of my mind that I’ve forgotten it exists.”

“Oh, you half-wit! It’s love!” Mrs. Hudson proclaims from the staircase, effectively startling both men. John’s eyes flicker to Sherlock, who appears so shaken that John momentarily worries if he’ll pass out in his arms.

“Is that true, Sherlock?” John asks, quiet. “You love me, more than a friend?”

He won’t look at John. “It’s plausible,” he murmurs, making John laugh in response. Sherlock thinks it’s the most brilliant sound he’s ever heard.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John shakes his head and giggles, releasing an unnaturally high, abrupt sound. “You really could’ve just told me, y’know,” and suddenly John’s hand is on Sherlock’s dressing gown and pulling Sherlock's lips onto his.

Sherlock freezes, his entire body setting off sensors, possibly to celebrate and scream at the big lump of nerves in his skull, _John! Watson! is! kissing! you!_ He doesn’t move until he feels John smile against him—almost laugh—and the hand that isn’t grasping his lapel reaches up to cup Sherlock’s face. Only then does Sherlock melt, his long body flush against John’s. His arms wrap around John and decide they never want to let go. He hears Mrs. Hudson squeak and scamper off, probably to get her camera, but the kiss ends before she returns.

 _Stop that,_  Sherlock tells his face, as John leans away and leaves Sherlock grinning and blushing all too much like a swooning teenager. He looks at John, this doctor with damp shoes and slightly ruffled hair. This man with sunken eyes and day-old cologne. This complete _arsehole_ who dares to lean in once more, tap Sherlock Holmes on the chest, and tease, “Now what can you deduce from that, detective?”

“This leads me to believe, that maybe,” Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, “I should’ve come to terms with my feelings sooner.”

“Eh, it’s not like people haven't already been doing little else than talk.” John cocks his head and beams. Sherlock thinks he’ll never witness something so radiant ever again until John pecks Sherlock once more. Reluctantly, he lets John step away and they give Mrs. Hudson the time to harass them—”does this mean you’ll be using one bedroom now?”—and for once, everything is right.  
  
John is happy and free from worry, though he wonders just exactly how he got into this position, with Sherlock Holmes brushing his fingertips against the weathered palm of his hand. It’s a sensation he wouldn’t trade for the world, thrilling crime scenes and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks for reading my first Sherlock fic on Ao3! It's about two in the morning as I post this, so this probably could've been better if I weren't so impatient, but oh well. Leave a comment telling me what you think~


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